Icicle
by prodigale
Summary: Possibly carved in diamond and ice, even the hardest element has its cracks, too. — kai centric, tala .


Apply standard beyblade disclaimer here.

A kai introspection piece.

Ooc might be present , but I promise to keep any parts of it minimal.

FRACTURED ICICLE; ICE MAN;

Possibly carved in diamond and ice, even the hardest element has its cracks, too. -- kai centric, tala .

-

Kai tires, sometimes.

It's easy to spend twenty hours out there on the beydish, unthinkingly putting that permenant scowl on your face, with scarf ends trailing your back, until the whole world knows you not by name, but by your poise, by your stance, by the color of your hair and eyes. You become that ice man, and it's easy to play the role what _they w_ant you to be. But, more often than not, it takes more than just a mortal to keep that growl and sneer and smirk coming all the time, like you'll have to be a complete _automaton _to not feel tired, so bloody sick and tired, of feeling that darkness swirling in your head.

And Kai tires, sometimes.

But most of all, it's just lately that he looks into the mirror, and he doesn't know what to do with that firmly set lips of his, and that breath against the mirror snatching from his lips. Kai wonders even if he likes who he sees in the mirror – who's he's become. A sheer victim of the media, an ironic prey to the predator, of which said predator are actually his old friends whom he thought he could once trust. (Tyson, Max, Kenny, Ray...friends? He doesn't know for sure. Doesn't want to know, most of all.)

And at the end of the day, when he feels like he has a million scars on his back, and there are holes all over his precious scarf he's had since a child in the old, dingy abbey, and he's tired, and he's fatigued, and his limbs are all rotten, and he can barely move (can't move at all), he realizes he's dragging his feet along the cold snowy banks, all the way to find the place he can call _home. _

(Home. Family. You define it as what you will. Family – simply the ones you want to see yourself with when you look yourself in the mirror, and know it's okay to actually _smile _and not feel so damn _ashamed _all the time like you're not supposed to be _happy. _Like you don't deserve it.)

There's one and million thoughts running through his mind, and his energy run dry, his frown drops. It all drops...so much like the snow angels from the sky. The frown, the eyes, the shoulders – and there's a perpetual slump, and he makes his way somewhere he sees the _light, _and he catches sight of firewoods burning in the cold. He rubs his palms, and walks through the door.

He has to shield his vision. It's so _bright. _

But not those that pierces. It's comfortable, once he gets used to it.

There's no "welcome home".

All he gets is a punch in the face, a throttle in the neck, a shake in the ear, and a not-very-inviting "you look like shit, Hiwatari" –

And _fuck, _he feels so goddamn tired that he actually wants to _cry. _

He rubs open his eyes (more like someone forces him to, pries them open), and he doesn't realize the intensity of his fatigue, until he collapses on the sofa, spent of all his energy. Doesn't even stay awake just enough to notice the tears are already at the c_orner _of his eyes, and that his fists are clenched so tight, he's bleeding. Doesn't even realize someone's staring him down like he's lost it. (He knows he's lost it.) But then he's also the _first _to actually not look at him like he's from outer space. Like an alien. Like someone not mortal who doesn't deserve to know what's to cry and not. Doesn't possess this humane ability to cry, to think.

It all feels like a haze to him, as Kai stares through empty sockets, into blue eyes.

(Feels like home.)

"Hiwatari."—

He expects it suddenly. He closes his eyes. The worst is to come. This is uncharacteristic of him.

But, someone ought to save him from this hell from here. Someone ought to see he isn't programmed. Isn't made of numericals and alphabets and digits. _Fuck, _he has a heart. And damn all, who thinks he's entirely carved out of ice just because he doesn't mind so much throwing his power around the beydish sometimes with Dranzer's flame around his back. (Sometimes, he likes to think of that moment as his only source of warmth when it's all so cold, so harsh, so brutal out there in the battles.)

And he expects it. Really.

Someone to tell him he's a Hiwatari. Remind him of who he's _supposed _to be (not who _he is – _no, nobody ever takes notice of him enough to realize he's never been who he really is...but a simple prey to expectations and conforming wishes) . Tears don't suit you, they'll say, and laugh at him, with jutting fingers at his face. He probably even expects someone to come up to him, dab at his tears, and asks with widened eyes and disbelief and all, "Are these real?"

He pictures that, and he laughs. (Really.) It's funny how he's made the whole world believe he's a heartless, aloof, impersonal man, when he thinks the only person left he's failed to convince he really ought to be like this – is himself.

He can't help but think that a frown looks wrong on him, when he looks into the mirror.

(No babies are born with scowls, are there? Mortals are at their best looking when they smile. So isn't he? Isn't he what they all are? What sets him apart? What makes him different -- what , what? )

"Hiwatari." The voice continues.

Kai snaps open his eyes.

And feels his fingers being pried open. One by one. All ten of them eventually. Until he looks down, and all he sees are the scars, the streamline of razor sharp edges, of blood bath where his nails cut through like hard, steel knives.

He is vaguely aware of a tiny tear slipping through his eye.

And half expects pandemonium and hell the next day. The headline of the newspaper with his name in bold and capitalisation. Media hounds and paparazzi firing the same old questions. You feel, really? You cry, really? You have a heart, really?

You are human, really?

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck, _I'm mortal. I'm human. I'm Kai. One and the same.

"Here. I do this sometimes so they don't fall out." The voice speaks.

Kai watches on through blurry vision, as the owner of the voice gets up from his side, heads to the side of the room, and starts to perform a handstand, balancing himself against the white wall.

He sees him now in an opposite angle. Hundred and eighty degrees. Upside down.

He quirks an eyebrow. "...What don't fall out?"

His heart sears.

Something cleaves onto it.

(A single tear that doesn't spill.)

"I do this," the voice repeats, "so the tears don't fall out."

Kai thinks for a while, observes, and then finds his lips curling slightly, so subtly at that action.

"You're weird, _Tala._"

"Jeez, I was just trying to help."

Tala doesn't move an inch in his position.

Five seconds later, Kai joins his friend by the side.

(And the tear disappears. Those that threaten to slip down his face, merely moisten by the side, and curl against his lashes, and are gone, gone, _gone.) _

Kai wonders subsceptibly if the ones by his heart are, too.

Maybe, maybe they'll just take a while longer.

But at least,

at least right here, with a friend like that by his side, who accepts him merely for who he is, simply as what he is – not a robot, not a automaton, not a heartless monster, not a terror of death feared by man – but plaintively nude, stripped of all his extremities, of all his brandishes, his labels, his names –

Leaving nothing but what he is –

as Kai Hiwatari, as someone whom he knows he doesn't have to wake up every morning and scowl his way to looking into the mirror, to come home and still keep that (_stupid) _icy bastard facade on his face when he really just wants to s_mile _because maybe even a person like him may have his nice days, as someone who has emotions too just like anyone else, who goes through that roller coaster and ups and downs of life like joy, loneliness and defeat --

without judgement, without questioning, merely accepting,

"Thanks...Tala."

...And he knows he means every word of it.

**Owari.**


End file.
